Forever My Mommatag:typepad.com,2003:weblog-866788056688617072012-10-31T14:17:42-04:00TypePadNew Plans for Momma Continued … tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe8833017c32f7f36a970b2012-10-31T14:17:42-04:002012-10-31T14:17:42-04:00She was in a solitary space, alone, unaware that we were even there. She sat up on one hip, swinging her leg from the chair, the other poised on the foot rest. She held her head with one hand, elbow propped on the arm of the chair, and rubbed her eyes with the palm of her other hand. We seemed invisible, and sensing this, we sat very quietly and still, and watched as though spying on someone in a very private moment. Momma heaved and sighed, then slumped over in the chair, squeezing her eyes shut. My sisters and I sat up, looked quizzically at each other, and waited. RiverMaking changestag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe8833017ee42004c6970d2012-10-12T13:34:06-04:002012-10-12T13:34:06-04:00Two months ago my sisters visited a memory care facility in our area. They were impressed by many of the qualities and services offered, especially the sensitivity and understanding of the staff. In particulary, my sisters felt that the kinds of people, both staff and residents alike, and the kinds...RiverMovetag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe88330176178985aa970c2012-08-31T09:47:18-04:002012-08-31T09:47:18-04:00Momma and I are like water and oil. Even under the best of conditions, we never did very well together for long periods of time. The teasing, antagonizing, combative nature of our relationship worked well for most of my life, but Momma can no longer hold her own; and I can’t always hold my tongue.RiverThe TIMEtag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe88330167692f2481970b2012-08-18T08:43:00-04:002012-08-18T08:43:00-04:00Twenty years ago my grandmother moved into a nursing home. She had made the decision to leave her home several years earlier and then, when the time came, she went. I wish I had known then to ask what I now think are the most profound questions: What defines “the...RiverA New Perspectivetag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe88330167692f22b7970b2012-08-13T08:42:00-04:002012-08-13T08:42:00-04:00Sister Connie is a doer; a fixer. She is action-oriented and motivated by results. While all three of us continue to believe in Momma’s intellectual capacity and we want to foster a meaningful quality of life for Momma, Connie is the one who relentlessly never gives up. Sometimes I think...RiverOne of the Good Daystag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe8833016768992834970b2012-08-12T20:37:00-04:002012-08-12T20:37:00-04:00Momma told old stories as I pushed her around in her wheelchair. Son-in-law Dean bought her a block of homemade fudge. At dinner after the show, Momma told more old stories and we responded with genuine interest, as if that was the first time to hear each of them.RiverLying Glasstag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe8833017743e9a9e5970d2012-08-10T16:24:00-04:002012-08-10T16:24:00-04:00Momma is in a fuzzy, foggy world. There seems to be a thick, one-way glass wall all around her. It’s not the typical one-way glass that people put in expensive homes thought, because it is a trick glass, too. The walls around her distort all images so that nothing is...RiverWhy, Momma, Why?tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe88330176168e127f970c2012-08-05T20:35:00-04:002012-08-05T20:35:00-04:00Why are you doing that? Why is the sky blue? Why is it dark now? Why is that hot? Why do I have to take a bath? Why do I have to wear a hat? Why is Daddy at work? Why can’t I have ice cream? Why is that bird singing? Why is the worm moving? Why is the grass wet? Why, Momma, why? Why? Why?RiverStolen Rosestag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe88330176170304d3970c2012-08-04T15:05:31-04:002012-08-04T15:05:31-04:00Daddy never had very much money, but he was a most generous giver nonetheless. When he was first courting Momma, Sundays were their regular date days. Daddy would go to Momma’s house right after church, eat the Sunday meal with her family, and then spend the day with her. As...RiverAfter the Diagnosistag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00e552288bbe88330176168e10f0970c2012-07-30T20:32:00-04:002012-07-30T20:32:00-04:00 The truth, however, was that I could not sit there any longer. I no longer had conversational ideas, nor did I have the energy to create smiles. I was tired and depressed and most of all, I feared that if I sat there one more minute, the shifting sands would swallow me.River